


Oversight

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2019 [5]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot is a dumbass, Gen, Hardison worries about everyone, Hiding Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family, and he's super valid for it, mostly comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: “Eliot,” Hardison says calmly. Impressively calmly, he thinks. “Did you break your ribs and not tell anyone again?”





	Oversight

**Author's Note:**

> A few days late whoops but have some Eliot & Hardison for whumpter day 24: secret injury. Also fills the 'hiding an injury' square on my hurt/comfort bingo card.

The first time Eliot walks through the room, Hardison barely notices. He’s deep in the rabbit hole of YouTube, play-through video on one screen, muted DIY robotics tutorial on another, a playlist of conspiracy theories on auto-play in the bottom corner, all of it background noise to the string of code he’s working on.

The second time, he only notices because Eliot drops something. His eyes flick up, registering the book now on the floor before going back to his screens. Two seconds, then his attention is snapping back up to Eliot, focus the kind of razor sharp it was when he had to break Parker out of the Wakefield building.

Eliot does not drop things.

“You good, man?” Hardison asks, aiming for casual and overshooting by a mile. 

Eliot doesn’t seem to notice. And he still hasn’t picked up the book. He’s leaning against the breakfast bar, one arm caught between the bench and his side, staring down at the paperback on the floor. 

“I’m fine,” he says. He glances at Hardison, only turning his head even though it must feel awkward at the angle Hardison is behind him. It’s odd, and it takes Hardison a second to figure out that it’s odd because the rest of Eliot is so still. 

Eliot does not drop things and Eliot is never completely still.

“Oh shit,” Hardison exclaims, standing so fast his laptop almost slides right onto the floor. He throws out a hand to catch it, shoving it back across the couch cushions, but he doesn’t pause to make sure it stays there before he’s skidding across the floor in his socks. The whole time he’s cursing out Eliot and the last job and—okay, it’s mostly Eliot because, “Why the fuck didn’t you say you were hurt? Jesus, man, you can’t even stand straight, how the hell did we miss—”

Eliot’s eyebrows are doing something funny while he watches Hardison panic. It’s only when Hardison’s hands go out to grab his flannel and peel away the layers of shirts to find the injury hidden beneath that Eliot grabs his wrist and growls, “Dammit, Hardison, I’m fine, will you just—stop touching me, for god’s sake. And _breathe_, dammit.”

Hardison takes a breath. Eliot’s grip on his wrist is loose, halting the war path of the fingers still tangled in his shirt but not pushing Hardison away. It occurs to Hardison that maybe he can’t. He’s standing so stiffly, so carefully, like moving even an inch in the wrong direction will hurt.

“Eliot,” Hardison says calmly. Impressively calmly, he thinks. “Did you break your ribs and not tell anyone again?”

“No,” Eliot replies immediately. He glares at Hardison and Hardison glares right back, channelling every ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ look his nana ever gave him until Eliot’s resolve crumbles and he looks away. 

“Maybe one of them,” he mutters. He’s quick to add, “It’s just a busted rib, I’m fine. Don’t need your damn fussing.”

Hardison looks down at the book still lying on the ground between them. “You’re fine, huh? Gonna pick up your book then? Sit down with a cup of tea and do some nice, quiet resting—reading, I said reading.”

Eliot is glaring at him again, jaw set stubbornly. It’s the kind of stubborn Hardison usually sees before Parker steals something after they’ve told her not to. Or on Nate’s face, when the con falls apart and his scary brain doesn’t even blink before ticking over to the next, much more ruthless, plan to get what they need.

“Wait, no, hang on—”

Hardison tries to backtrack too late. One arm still pressed tightly against his side, Eliot lets go of Hardison’s wrist and bends down to get his book. It hurts, Hardison can see that it hurts in the stiltedness of Eliot’s movements, the clench of his jaw. He probably hasn’t even taken any pain medication for his broken ribs because that’s just the kind of idiotic thing the people Hardison hangs around with now do. He makes a note to leave a few medical studies about how minimising pain helps healing lying about where Eliot will find them. 

To Eliot’s credit, he does manage to pick up the book, properly motivated by Hardison’s sarcastic challenge as he is. Not so much to Eliot’s credit, he looks way too close to passing out afterwards.

“It’s not just the ribs, is it?” Hardison asks with a sigh. 

Eliot’s silence is answer enough. 

“Right, then,” Hardison says brightly. “Time to put all those first aid youtube videos I watched to good use. And after I am assured you are not dying, you and me are going to have a serious talk about telling people when you’re hurt, man.”

Eliot grumbles, but he leans on Hardison and lets himself be steered to the couch to be checked over.

“You didn’t need to worry,” he says, somewhere between Hardison helping pull his shirt off and wincing at the patchwork of purple and green all over Eliot’s back. He keeps his eyes on the alien abduction video now playing on one of the screens as he says it.

Hardison shakes his head. Some day, these brilliant, loveable, absolute dumbasses he hangs around with are going to get it. “I always worry, man. Worrying is like my speciality. I could get a masters and two PhDs in worrying.” Then he pauses, because if Nate and all his years of binge watching films have taught him anything, it’s that pauses are weighty. “‘Sides, you’re family, E. You can’t stop people worrying about family.”

Eliot doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t curse Hardison out when he insists on calling Parker to redo the stitches on his arm either, so Hardison figures that if the message hasn’t been received, it is at the very least being considered.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this angsty but then I didn't so. kudos to me for writing fluff I guess. Maybe next time you'll get the angsty version <s>which may or may not involve several people crying</s>.


End file.
